


I'll Be in Scotland Before You

by engagemythrusters



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Languages, M/M, Taken By The Rift, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26926921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engagemythrusters/pseuds/engagemythrusters
Summary: At work, sometimes you find yourself spending some extra time with a coworker that you weren't necessarily expecting. Stuck in a lift maybe. Waiting for the coffee machine. Transported back to 10th century Scotland. Well. Maybe that's just if you work for Torchwood.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 6
Kudos: 124





	I'll Be in Scotland Before You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yavemiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavemiel/gifts).



> Built in part based on a conversation with Yavemiel. Thank you! I took it in a very different direction than we'd discussed, whoops... Hopefully it's still good?  
> Also I stole your quote for a summary because I'm lazy and it's two am and also it's just a really really good quote. Sorry and also thank you!

“Well,” Gwen said. “This is rubbish.”

“Bit of an understatement.”

“Oh, you’re right, Ianto, this is absolutely utter fucking piss-poor, lousy, miserable shit,” she snapped. “How silly of me to say otherwise.”

Ianto rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, though,” she said with a sigh.

“I know.”

“What the hell do we do?” she asked. “I mean, it’s not like we can just walk up to them and say, ‘please untie us, we mean no harm, we’re just from the future where women can wear bloody _trousers_.’”

“I don’t think that’s their problem with us,” Ianto said.

“Well, it was certainly his problem!” She gestured with bound hands to one of the large men (brute, Ianto would call him a brute) by the fire. “Backwards bastard.”

Ianto patted her knee sympathetically.

“Not sure you can teach a tenth century Scotsman the nuances of feminism.”

She huffed, “If I could, I would.”

“Not sure you could teach a tenth century Scotsman _anything,_ ” Ianto added. “None of them have a clue what we’re saying.”

“I haven’t a clue what _they’re_ saying, so we’re even.”

They fell into a silence, both of them watching their captors sit around the fire and talk amongst themselves. One of them stood over it, seeming to be cooking a soup or stew or something. Ianto watched that man for a bit, mostly out of boredom rather than interest. He’d given up trying to figure out how to escape roughly an hour ago, when they’d taken off his tie. One of them men—Ianto couldn’t remember which—had stuck it in a sack. Ianto doubted he’d get it back.

“I don’t know any Welsh,” Gwen said, breaking the silence. “Rhys is the one who speaks Welsh, not me.”

Ianto gave a hum of acknowledgement, now watching one of the men dig around a sack. Tie?

“Do you know Welsh?”

No tie. Pity.

Ianto slumped forward a bit, sighing quietly. Gwen nudged her shoulder into his.

“Welsh, Ianto,” she repeated. “Do you know any?”

“A bit,” he said. “Learnt some in school. Why?”

“Okay, then…” She nodded meaningfully at the group.

He stared at her a moment. She raised her eyebrows in return.

“Gwen… we’re in _Scotland_ ,” Ianto said.

“So?”

“What’s Welsh going to do?” he said. “They don’t speak Welsh!”

“I know!”

“Alright, there is a small chance they might be Pictish, considering the area we’re in,” Ianto said, “and that’s at least in the same Brythonic family, but—"

“Okay, yes, thank you,” she interrupted. “I only meant maybe they’d realise we sound Welsh and then let us go.”

“How do we know they’ve ever met anyone Welsh? And I’m sure Welsh sounds different after eleven centuries, I doubt that they’d even recognise it as Welsh if they _did_ know what Welsh sounded like. And maybe they hate the Welsh!”

Gwen gave him a long, unimpressed look. Ianto knew that if she was untied, she’d have folded her arms and stood herself in a defensive pose.

“You finished now?” she asked.

“Well…”

“If you have a better idea, I’m all ears,” she said.

Ianto did not, in fact, have a better idea.

“Alright, then.” She motioned once more to the group. “Give it a go.”

Ianto eyed the men for a moment, trying to judge which person to address. None of them seemed particularly leader-ly. They might not have even had a leader. Ianto knew very little about tenth century Scotland, but he knew their medieval age wasn’t _that_ different from, say, the Welsh or English one. Some king sat on some throne in some castle somewhere. Ianto didn’t know who their king was, or even if they listened to said king—he had a feeling they did not, though. They seemed to be the rogue-traveller sort. So, no leader. Were they equals then?

Gwen’s elbow found itself a spot between Ianto’s ribs, so he cleared his throat and then said a loud “Um?” because he felt “ums” were probably universal, no matter the culture or the time.

Sure enough, the small band glanced up from the fire and stared at the pair of them.

 _“Dych chi’n hoffi cawl?”_ Ianto asked.

The Scotsmen stared at him.

“Alright, that didn’t work,” Ianto muttered to himself before calling, _“Dysgu Cymraeg!”_

One of the bigger men shouted something back at him. Even though Ianto hadn’t planned on trying anything more, the annoyance in the man’s tone had him shut up instantly.

“Well, we tried,” Gwen said with a sigh.

 _“‘We?’_ ” Ianto hissed. “Excuse me, I did all the work! And now that man is going to kill me in my sleep.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I am _not_ dramatic!”

She shot him a sidelong glance and he shut his mouth.

They fell silent again, watching their captors. Gwen likely kept scheming, plotting their brilliant and clever escape, while Ianto just watched for his tie. He really, really wanted that tie back.

“What do you suppose they’re making?” Gwen asked after a while.

“Likely not strawberry tart.”

“Oh, really, do you think? What gave it away?”

Ianto rolled his eyes.

“Do you think there’s celery in that?” she asked, craning her neck to get a better look at the fire.

“Celery doesn’t grow in Scotland,” he said.

“Well, good. Bloody hate celery.”

“And I don’t think they’re giving us any stew, anyway,” Ianto said.

She sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

Hunger clawed annoyingly at Ianto’s stomach just then. Ianto’s stomach, displeased about this turn of events, growled back at the hunger. Wonderful timing. Gwen looked at his midriff, then shot an quizzical eyebrow up at him. He shrugged, and she gave a wry and sympathetic smile back. It glided off her face as easily as it came, though, falling into semi-despair.

“What do you think they’re going to do with us?”

“I don’t know,” Ianto said truthfully.

“You know that law that’s like… oh, that one that says that magic and technology look alike to the uninformed?”

Clarke’s third law. Of course Ianto knew that one. It was Jack’s favourite thing to flaunt. And flout.

“Well, they burned the PDA,” she said, looking at the fire. “And our mobiles. They don’t think… that those were magic, or something, do they?”

“I don’t think they’re going to burn for witchcraft.”

Gwen still looked apprehensive, though she said nothing more after that.

The men around the fire dished out their stew and ate it. Ianto and Gwen received nothing, for which Ianto’s stomach unfairly punished him. Gwen rested her head on his shoulder after a while, possibly feeling much the same. Hungry, tired, helpless… and a tad bit scared. He placed his cheek on her hair.

He had not lied to Gwen earlier; he hadn’t a clue what would become of them. He didn’t assume anything good, but he held that tiny bit of optimism that nothing truly horrid would happen, either. And it was still the early days—he still had hope they could get back. Though perhaps thinking of now as the “early days” meant he had already lost some of that hope.

Gwen fell asleep not too long after the men finished off their food and had returned to discussing amongst themselves. They spoke quieter than before, and somehow more earnest and intently. The uproarious banter had turned to a true conversation, it seemed. Ianto laid Gwen down as gently as he could, trying to make sure she slept on the softest spot in the grass.

He stayed awake a while longer, watching the men. He didn’t trust them any more than they trusted him, so he had to keep a vigilant eye. If they came to hurt Gwen… or if the man that had shouted really did want to kill him in his sleep… well. Ianto would have to make sure he was the last one awake.

It took a while, but the men eventually went down, and though his eyelids drooped heavily, Ianto stayed awake until he heard each and every last one of them snore. Then he himself stretched out on the grass beside Gwen, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

The morning sunlight, while piercing directly through the darkness of sleep and straight into his poor eyes, was not what woke Ianto up.

No, he was kicked awake.

“Ow,” he said, rubbing his side as he sat up.

The man—the one Ianto now remembered to have stolen his lovely tie—glared down at him, barking out something Ianto did not understand. Ianto squinted up at the man’s face, both blinded by the sun’s rays and confused beyond belief. The man made a noise that read as “displeasure” in any language, then moved over to Gwen.

“No, wait!” Ianto threw his arms over Gwen. “Don’t kick her!”

The man glowered down at him even harder, but he didn’t kick Gwen awake. He said something, likely very nasty, then turned and went back to the group. Ianto watched, and when the man was a safe distance away, he shook Gwen—gently, very gently—awake.

“The alarm didn’t go off,” Gwen mumbled.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Ianto said, “but digital alarm clocks won’t be invented for another ten centuries.”

Gwen sat up in an instant, startled. She stared at him for a long second, then closed her eyes and exhaled deeply.

“I’d hoped it had been some crazy dream,” she murmured.

“Unfortunately, only the ‘crazy’ part is true.”

She sighed. “I suppose we don’t get breakfast, either, do we?”

Ianto looked to the men. They seemed to be preparing to leave: kicking dirt over the smoking embers of last night’s fire, packing bags, conversing urgently with each other as they pointed in various directions.

“Looks like a hard no,” Ianto said.

“Figures,” she huffed.

“Could eat grass,” he suggested.

The both of them looked down at where they’d just slept. Gwen’s nose instantly wrinkled in distaste. Ianto felt similarly.

Neither of them tried the grass.

Ianto helped Gwen to her feet after a while. Ianto’s backside felt somewhat numb after spending it on the hard ground for nearly half a day and a whole night. Gwen stretched a little, but he didn’t. He felt like his legs would fall right off if he lifted them an inch higher than he absolutely needed to.

“Where do you think we’re headed?” Gwen asked, twisting side to side.

“Not to Wales.”

She stopped stretching to give him an unamusedly raised eyebrow. He cleared his throat and glanced at the men again. A few of them were making gestures in one direction, to the northeast. Ianto made sure nobody else pointed in another direction before turning and looking in that direction himself.

“That way, I’d say,” he said, pointing.

She spun on her heel and followed his outstretched arms.

“Well, whatever’s that way, I hope it’s good,” she said.

Ianto hummed a note in response, unwilling to give his own opinion.

He really didn’t care which way they went. No matter where they ended up, they wouldn’t find a way to get help. Not the help they needed, anyway. They could travel all the way to what would eventually be Cardiff and it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t get them to their home time.

He felt his hopes starting to fade already. He wasn’t sure they’d ever come back.

Turning his attention back to the horizon, he tried to figure out, for Gwen’s sake, what might be out that way. As they were near the foot of a small—yet substantial—hill, most of his view was blocked. He could only guess that more hills lay out beyond this one.

He started as something popped up at the edge of the hill.

At first, he was naïve enough to think it was some animal. Some large rodent popped up out of its hole, or something.

But he didn’t know of any large rodents in the Scottish Highlands. Especially not ones that kept growing. Or turned into a human once they reached the top of the hill and stared down at the people below.

Due to the sunlight sitting behind the man (for it was indeed a man), all that Ianto could see was the man’s silhouette. However, that was the only thing Ianto needed.

He’d know that silhouette anywhere, anytime. Between the dramatic stance and the damn coat, Ianto could easily identify Captain Jack Harkness.

For a moment, all he could do was stare.

Not a word in English, Welsh, or whatever language the men behind him spoke could describe just what emotion Ianto felt as he stared at Jack in the sunlight.

Then Jack began to descend from the top of the hill, and the moment ended, and Ianto reached out to Gwen.

“Gwen,” he said urgently. “Gwen, look!”

“Oh my god,” she said, peering up. “Is that…”

“It’s Jack!”

“Jesus, what is he wearing?”

As Jack stepped out of the more direct sunlight, Ianto could see him more clearly. That wasn’t Jack’s coat he was wearing. It hung around him similarly, so Ianto refused to let himself feel bad about misidentifying him (because, in the end, he _had_ been right, anyway), but it was more cloak-like than coat. Similar shade of blue, though. The rest of his outfit was straight-up medieval garb.

Ianto thought he’d have rather Jack just shown up in what he was wearing, though he did appreciate the effort.

He felt less appreciative, though, when Jack walked straight past them.

“Jack?” he said.

Jack didn’t stop, continuing down the hill toward the men.

“Jack!” Gwen snapped sharply.

Jack stopped. He turned and stared at the two of them. And just stared.

Ianto prided himself on knowing Jack. Ianto knew a lot of things, actually, but he’d like to think he knew Jack best. Okay, maybe coffee, too. Coffee and Jack. And just like when he could tell when his coffee was just a hair off… he could tell when Jack was off, too.

For a fraction of a second, so fast that it would’ve gone unnoticed had Ianto not already been sharply attuned to Jack’s features, Jack’s eyes went wide. It snapped away, quickly as it came, and Jack’s usual thousand-watt grin plastered itself all over Jack’s face. Ianto and Gwen received a wink, then Jack turned again and continued on his way to the group of men.

“What’s he doing?” Gwen whispered.

“Not sure,” Ianto said, frowning.

He really wasn’t sure of anything about this Jack.

“Is he negotiating?” she asked.

“Maybe…”

Ianto watched Jack talk to the Scotsmen. He wasn’t sure what he should be looking for, but those men didn’t seem to be pissed off, and Ianto felt certain that those men would normally get pissed off if they were interrupted. Ianto peeked at Gwen quickly, though she seemed to be too eager to see Jack to note anything odd. So, he returned his attention to the men and waited.

Jack and the men spoke for a few minutes longer, then Jack let out a loud laugh and turned, coming back up the hill to meet them again.

“Come on,” Jack said. “I’ve convinced them to let you go. Said you’re under my supervision.”

Ianto had no idea why that would hold such weight over those men, but he kept that to himself. 

“Up over the hill,” Jack ordered.

“What for?” Gwen asked.

“We can’t let them see us using this, can we?” Jack flicked his sleeve aside to show his vortex manipulator. “Clarke’s third law. ‘Any sufficiently—'”

“Yes, yes, we know Clarke’s third law,” Ianto cut over him. “Let’s go before the men change their minds, shall we?”

The smile that lit up Jack’s face was absolutely _stunning_ , though hardly worthy of Ianto’s light acerbity. Still, Ianto drank it all in, enthralled and entranced by it.

Jack grabbed both Ianto and Gwen’s arms, marching them up the hill and then down the other side. He quickly pulled out a knife—nearer to a dagger, really—and cut their bonds. Ianto immediately rolled his wrists, glad to be free.

“Just need to remember…” Jack muttered, “where the coordinates were…”

“You can’t remember the coordinates to the Hub?” Gwen asked.

“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve had to plug them into this,” Jack said, nodding his head at his wrist strap.

“Right, yeah, how did you fix it?”

Jack looked up. He caught Ianto’s eye, and Ianto held the gaze for a moment. Then Jack blinked over to Gwen.

“Just a temporary, one-time fix,” Jack said. Before Gwen or Ianto could say anything else, he instructed them, “Grab onto me.”

Ianto and Gwen held onto Jack, and with a disconcerting lurch, tenth century Scotland disappeared from around them and—

—turned into twenty-first century Wales, complete with an invisible lift beneath their feet.

“Oh, that was awful,” Gwen groaned. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Ianto, also feeling rather nauseous, helped her sit down on the edge of the pavement square. She put her head between her knees for a second. Ianto kept his eyes on Jack.

The people on the Roald Dahl Plass moved around freely, unaware of the man in the ancient wardrobe or the woman trying not to lose the breakfast she hadn’t eaten. Ianto found himself mildly amused by their ignorance.

Gwen eventually got to her feet again.

“Ugh,” she said. “I don’t want to do any time travel ever again.”

“Well, with any luck, you won’t fall through the Rift again,” Jack said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“God, can you imagine what’d happen if we’d been stuck there?” Gwen asked. “I would never have seen you again. Never would’ve seen Rhys again…”

Ianto could tell that the severity of their situation hadn’t smacked her in the face as quickly as it had to him when they were actually in Scotland, because he could now see her breaking around the edges, cracking under the “might-have-been’s.”

Jack must’ve noted this, too, because he told her, “Go home to Rhys. We can clear this up tomorrow.”

“You sure?” she asked. “You’ve been working alone for… how long have we been gone, anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jack said, and Ianto supposed Jack might have also had another, bigger reason for sending her home. “You need time off.”

Gwen, being smart, was not about to argue that. She hugged Ianto, putting a lot of emotion into it. A thank you, a “thank god,” and a sort of almost-goodbye. He returned it.

When she moved on to hug Jack, Ianto kept his eyes on Jack. He noted the way Jack’s arms tightened around her and the way Jack’s eyes closed. The way Jack held onto the moment just as tightly as he held onto Gwen.

“Alright,” Gwen said as she let go of Jack. “I need to shower the campfire out of my hair. I’m sure I must smell like a barbeque now!”

She laughed and said her goodbye, then dashed off of the invisible lift and away into the real world. Jack and Ianto watched her go, until there was nothing left to see.

“So,” Ianto said, turning to Jack. “How long has it been?”

Jack’s smile was slight and sad. “Too long.”

Ianto reached a hand up, running a finger across the few silvering hairs Ianto could spot in the early Cardiff sunlight.

“Distinguished,” he said.

“My looks haven’t taken any hits in my aging, thank god,” Jack said, his smile turning roguish.

“Neither has your vanity,” Ianto said, which Jack laughed at. “Though I doubt you’d ever be ugly, anyway.”

Jack laughed again. “Who knows? I could be a head in a jar someday.”

Ianto thought that was a particularly weird thing for one to say, but he didn’t comment on it. Some things weren’t for him to know, when it came down to it. He absolutely wished to know all of Jack’s secrets, to know how Jack’s life would unfold in the many, many years to come, but… no. That wasn’t his Jack to know. His Jack was somewhere below, probably suffering from a caffeine withdrawal.

But Ianto could indulge in some things. Just a little.

“What’s with the—” He gestured to Jack’s outfit.

“Ah,” Jack said. “Well, the Time Agency may have run its course, but someone’s got to protect the timeline, right?”

“I thought your Doctor did that,” Ianto said.

“Everyone could use a bit of help, now and then,” Jack said.

Ianto nodded slowly. Then he pointed to the tunic.

“Surprised you didn’t take the opportunity to wear a kilt.”

“Kilts aren’t around for another six centuries, Ianto. Don’t you know anything about ancient Scotland?”

Ianto threw him an exasperated look.

“Though,” Jack said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “if you really want to see me in a kilt… ask me about it sometime.”

Ianto wondered if that was a hint about the future. Well, it absolutely was, considering that Ianto was now thinking about that Scottish accent Jack could sometimes do and the fact that Jack wouldn’t look anything less than outrageously hot in a belted plaid…

Ianto coughed. “Right. Any more useful tips?”

He really loved hearing this Jack laugh. It was loud and clear and unburdened. _Happy_. Ianto loved that he could make this Jack make that sound. But this Jack wasn’t his Jack, so Ianto stored the memory of this laugh away for times when he needed to hear it, and he instead thought about his own Jack. 

Then he remembered something important.

"My tie," he said mournfully.

With a grin, Jack reached behind his cloak and into the belt he wore, drawing out... Ianto's tie.

"You got it?" Ianto asked, astounded.

"Tenth century Scotsmen are surprisingly easy to pick-pocket," Jack said. "Don't even notice when a tie goes missing from a bag right under their noses."

Ianto stared at him.

"Mind if I keep it?" Jack asked, his fingers running down the silk.

"Um," Ianto said. He liked that tie. Jack had gifted it to him. Sort of. In a way. But he supposed... "Alright."

Beaming, Jack stuffed it back in his belt. Ianto felt a tiny bit sad watching the tie go, but he did suppose he had more. And this one was in the best of hands. 

“Don’t fall through the Rift again,” Jack warned.

“I’ll certainly try not to.”

Jack smiled, this time softer than before, and Ianto knew this was the end. He stepped forward, letting Jack’s hands cup his face, letting Jack kiss him.

“Goodbye, Ianto Jones,” Jack said, possibly for his last time.

“Goodbye, Jack,” Ianto said, for his first.

Jack kissed him one last time, a kiss that went unparalleled by any other in Ianto’s book. Long and slow, gentle and caring. Loving. Ianto felt eternity in that kiss. He mourned its ending when they broke apart.

This Jack stepped back and brought his arm up with a flourish, pressing a few buttons on his vortex manipulator. Ianto got a final smile and a wink from Jack, and then he was gone in a flash of brilliant white light.

Ianto stood on the pavement for a moment longer, staring at the space where Jack was. Then he sighed, remembering just how unbearable Jack could be without coffee, and took off in the direction of the tourist centre.

There never was a more pleasant sound than his own Jack shouting _“Ianto!”_ as he crossed the through the cog door into the Hub, and never a more pleasant sight than his Jack rushing toward him only to stop abruptly just a smidgeon outside Ianto’s personal space.

“Where the hell have you been?” Jack demanded. “I’ve been looking for you and Gwen everywhere!”

Ianto just smiled. 

**Author's Note:**

> Welsh translations: "Do you like soup?" and "Learn Welsh!" (Because... Ianto doesn't remember much of his Welsh from school...)  
> Written very, very late at night. Again. So no editing. _Again._ Sorry!  
> Thank you for reading! Have a good day!


End file.
